The Streets
by Gertrude-04
Summary: My version of Remy's introduction to the XMen. A little AU, pretty dark. Rated for language and somewhat adult themes. Chapter three up.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is my version of a certain favourite X-Man's introduction to the team. I consider it AU, since I did change a few things considered canon. It's not very pleasant, so if you don't like that kind of thing, don't read it. As I mention every single time I post, I appreciate feedback in any form.

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He knows when he wakes up to water dripping onto his forehead that it is going to be a bad day. Especially since he's always been able to feel the rain, no, more like the movement of raindrops falling through the air, and because of this, he knows it's not rainwater that's dripping onto his head, sliding into his hair, and soaking his old pillow beneath.

That thought has exactly one quarter of a second to register before he shoots off the tiny, creaky and rusted cot, all the while cursing a streak bluer than the ocean. He scrubs at his forehead with his hands, refusing to actually consider what might be soaking into his bloodstream via his skin at that very moment…

He ducks back over to the cot, carefully avoiding the leak, and pulls a half empty bottle of water out from under the cot's frame. He pours an ounce or two onto the corner of his threadbare blanket, and uses it to carefully wipe his forehead, auburn hair, and the back of his neck. He knows it's far from sanitary, but without options, he has very little recourse.

With a defeated sigh, he reaches under the cot once more, and pulls out a pair of worn blue jeans. He hopes the holes ripped into the knees, the tattered cuffs and torn pockets make the pants look more like a favourite pair, rather than the only ones he owns. He splurged yesterday; after the tourists and locals alike were safely tucked away in their beds, he took what few articles of clothing he owned to the 24-hour Laundromat. It cost him a dollar to wash and dry his shorts, pants, sweatshirt, pillowcase and blanket. It doesn't seem like a lot, even to his warped standards, but it means it's one more dollar he'll have to find somewhere else.

But he doesn't care about that now. He doesn't care because his stomach is growling at him, there are three creased one dollar bills left in his pocket, and he only has one smoke left.

He pulls his sweatshirt out from under the cot, and slips it on, because even in New Orleans, the mornings are chilly. Sunglasses he swiped from an internet café downtown finish off his ragtag ensemble, and he ducks out the hole in the wall entrance at the back of the room.

He lives, though that might be a stretch of the imagination too far even for him, in the back room of a condemned building. He's not sure why it's still standing, or why he hasn't been kicked out of it yet, and he's not really into asking questions. With any luck, it'll collapse, or get torn down while he's sleeping, and he won't have to go through another day of this hell.

He looks up at the sky with a sneer as he steps over fallen brick and wooden beams. It's appearing like it's going to be a beautiful day, and while that generally makes finding a mark easier, it doesn't serve to put him in a better mood.

He tucks his hands into his pockets as he joins the crowds of people already milling about the sidewalk. New Orleans is a predominately tourist town, at least in the part near where he lives. The locals tend to gravitate closer to the outskirts of the city, away from the problems a person would find in any place highly populated by strangers. All that means for him is there is always an abundance of fanny packs and large canvas purses for him to slip his hands into.

He begins almost immediately, nimble and practiced fingers slipping into bags, back pockets, and windbreakers. He's unusually gifted at this; after a few minutes, and a few marks, he has nearly a hundred dollars in his jean pocket. He doesn't feel an ounce of remorse over what he has done; the people who visit this part of town have money to spare, and him getting it now means he can turn down other…avenues…that will assuredly present themselves later in the day.

He buys breakfast at the first shop he sees, a large Styrofoam cup of coffee and a couple of freshly baked pastries. He picks up a new pack of cigarettes in the novelty store next door, and pays for them honestly. They're kept behind the counter, as if in anticipation of someone like Remy, and he just doesn't feel up to the trouble it would cause to try and swipe them from underneath the shopkeepers nose.

He takes his newly acquired goods to his favourite spot in all of New Orleans, which is thankfully rather quiet given the time of day. He's not entirely sure he could deal with the curious glances of onlookers. He sits down, and makes short work of the breakfast food, and tucks his cigarettes into the pouch of his sweatshirt.

His old, oversized boots hang limply in the space below his feet. Underneath the stonewall on which he sits, the Mississippi River thrums with power, even at it's narrowest. The current is strong enough that he can feel its vibrations through the rock beneath his seat; it's moving quickly enough that he's apparently the only local stupid enough to get this close. Down the river a-ways, he can see a couple of tourists standing at the wall, leaning over to take pictures until a passer-by warns them of the danger. The young man can almost hear their words as if he were standing right next to them.

'You really gotta be careful, enh? Dat river's goin' s'fast all you'd hafta do is fall in, and you'd be lost.'

Unsurprisingly, no one approaches him with a kind warning, worrying over his well being enough to speak to a stranger. This does not surprise him. He has seventeen years of precedent on his side, to know without having to see it through that he will be ignored.

He takes a final drag on his cigarette before flicking it into the churning river below. Such thoughts are useless at a time like this; they will not help him get through another day.

He pivots on the protective wall, and hops down onto the cobblestone street. It's rare to find him in the tourist part of New Orleans, but he learned long ago that there's no fooling the locals. Those born and raised on the Bayou know of the danger of pickpockets, even in their fair city. Only out-of-towners, people who haven't yet been warned to keep their personal effects close to them, are suitable targets. If he tried to go after a local, he might get a hot meal and a dry bed in a holding cell, but they've got enough on him at this point that it is likely he wouldn't be seeing daylight again for a long time. And if there's one thing this street kid prizes, it's his freedom.

He broke into an unused hotel room the day before to take a quick shower, give himself a little haircut, and make sure he was at least halfway presentable. People are less likely to suspect a kid that looks like one of them. The relaxed way in which he holds himself, combined with the sunglasses and worn clothes he wears, he looks like a young man out for a walk to enjoy the beauty of the Louisiana spring day, rather than a thief looking for a mark.

On such a beautiful day, the streets are rapidly filling with tourists. The sidewalks are almost packed with people window shopping, stopping to ogle at the trinkets, and knick knacks that are so common in New Orleans. He falls in easily with the crowd, pauses to run his fingers over some silver jewelry, pretending to admire it while in fact he is calculating how much he could hawk it for. He spots the shopkeeper eyeing him suspiciously, and maybe he overdoes it a little with the innocent smile. But the shopkeeper answers in kind, and the young man continues on, hands shoved deeply into his pockets, sauntering down the streets as though he has no more pressing matters on his mind. His stomach grumbles in protest, but he ignores it. Two small pastries and a cup of coffee don't go very far when he hasn't eaten properly in three days.

He walks another block or two, and is deciding that maybe it's worth it to light up another precious cigarette when he sees her. She's perfect. Standing at a storefront a couple of yards down the street, the woman is rifling through some hand-died silk scarves. She has beautiful, long red hair, pulled back at the nape of her neck and held there by a single elastic. She's wearing jeans and a grey long sleeved t-shirt with a dark blue X encircled on the right breast pocket. A large, white canvas purse is slung over one shoulder. There are a couple of men standing at the same table, but she doesn't speak to any of them, and they don't seem to be together.

A smile threatens to lift the corners of his mouth, but he keeps it down. This mark should be easy enough, but he has done it enough times to know that over confidence will only ruin his chances. And given the wad of bills currently residing in his front right pocket, he doesn't really need to hit another mark. But something about this woman calls to him, and if taking her vacation money is the only way he can get close to her, he will do it.

He takes his hands out of his pockets, lets his arms relax and hang low at his sides. No matter how many times he does this, the butterflies always appear in his stomach before hand. He guesses it's a good sign that he hasn't become immune to the immorality of stealing.

He flexes the fingers of his right hand as he nears her, turns his head to look back over his shoulder as if conversing with someone behind him, and runs square into her. Just as he was hoping, she's knocked to the ground with a breathless gasp, the contents of her purse spilling out around her. He crouches next to her, begins to open his mouth to apologize and gather her things, when a hand shoots out from nowhere and snags his arm. The man holding onto him tightly enough to grind the bones of his wrist together is short, but thick with muscle. His face is half covered with wiry facial hair, as black as ink to match the outrageous spikey tufts on top of his head. His blue eyes are icy cold, but nonetheless, the young man sees nothing malevolent in the expression. The woman he knocked over is watching him with wide eyes, but he doesn't see any fear in her expression. He pulls on his wrist, but unsurprisingly, his captor is not letting go.

"Lemme go, homme!"

A crowd has begun to form around them, everyone eager to see what's going on, but none too ready to offer a lending hand. The young man begins to struggle in earnest. He stands, tries to twist his arm out of the older man's grip, but feels only pain. The sunglasses tumble off his face, and the lenses pop out and crack as they hit the cement of the sidewalk.

All at once, he feels the hold on his wrist weaken.

"Jeannie, it's him!"

He doesn't spare a moment to wonder what those words mean before he takes advantage of the moment's hesitation. He grabs a piece of jewelry off the table next to him, and transmits to it a weak charge; strong enough for an impressive bang, but not so strong as to hurt any onlookers.

He throws the silver bracelet onto the sidewalk, and successfully jerks his arm free of the once iron grip. Without waiting for the small resultant explosion, he vaults over the table, pushes through the gathered crowd, and makes a break for it.

He hasn't gone more than twenty feet before a muffled boom sounds behind him. He ducks into the nearest alleyway, his fast and panicked breathing echoing around the brick walls. He runs for a hanging fire escape ladder, leaps towards it and grabs on to the third rung. The whole structure creaks and groans as he pulls his thin body up to the next platform, but it holds together.

He becomes peripherally aware of the short, hairy man entering the alley only a few minutes behind him, just as he swings up onto the platform. He's not sure why he's so intent on running, why he's so desperate to escape from their clutches that he can feel his heartbeat pounding erratically throughout his body. He can't feel any harmful feelings on their part, just a general sense of concern, and a strange sort of dedication. That right there should be enough for him to throw in his towel, and relinquish himself to them. But he's learned many a painful lesson about misplaced trust, and the last thing he wants it to be subjected to another reminder.

So he bolts across the asphalt roof, running as if the very fires of hell were licking at his boots, which, he realizes as he leaps over an intake duct, they very well might be. He can't hear anything behind him, but that tells him nothing. His own abilities make him understand better than anything that nothing in his world is impossible.

He reaches the edge of the roof, and after wasting a moment on hesitation he jumps, landing heavily on the fire escape platform twelve feet below. The meager amount of his weight on its supporting pieces prove to be too much, and a great screeching sound can be heard as metal twists and distorts. The left side of the platform comes free from the brick wall it was attached to, and promptly throws the young man into a forward roll. His hands scrabble against the grated metal, breaking skin and bruising knuckles, but he is unable to find purchase. Before he can do anything but gasp for breath, he is falling, so hard and so fast, back down to the earth.

He has only the briefest flash of what his head will look like smashed against the pavement below before all downward motions suddenly stops. He's hanging in mid-air, with nothing appearing to hold him there. If he thought his heart was beating fast before, it is now more comparable to a runaway train. He becomes certain that if this situation does not resolve itself quickly, he might die of a heart attack before it gets a chance to.

The short, hairy man appears from around the corner, and steps over a fallen garbage can to near him. The young man panics, pulls against whatever bonds hold him there, but it is a waste of energy. He continues to hang.

"Easy there, kid," the older man says. "I ain't gonna hurt ya. Just relax. You won't be getting free otherwise."

He speaks with an accent the young man cannot place, and has no interest in trying to. Behind him, a red haired young woman comes forward, the same woman whose purse he tried to rifle through earlier. Accompanying her is a tall, slim man with brown, crew cut hair and a strange sort of red-lensed visor wrapped around his eyes. None of them seem at all surprised to see him floating a good six feet above the gravel.

"I gotta give you some credit." The hairy man begins speaking again. "No one's ever surprised me like that. Guess I shoulda been more careful."

The slim man with the visor displays a look something akin to shock as he glances at the other man, before turning to the red haired woman. "Jean, can you set him down?"

She focuses her gaze on the young man. "I don't know, Scott." She's looking right into his eyes, but she's speaking to the man she stands beside. "I don't want him to try to run. He might hurt himself. He's awfully scared."

"Y'damn right he's scared!" The young man shouts, characteristically not filtering his words before letting them loose. "He's hangin' fuckin' six feet off de ground!"

He struggles once more, tries to wiggle loose of the invisible hold, and while he does lower a few feet, so close to the ground he feels he might be able to grab a handful of gravel, the bonds constricting him do not loosen. He hangs his head with a sigh, and allows his body to relax.

"We just want to talk to you," Slim says, taking another step forward while one hand adjusts the visor on his head. The young man isn't sure why, but he senses the visor is some kind of weapon, and at the same time, he is in no danger as a result of it.

He doesn't say anything, just quirks up an eyebrow in response. Slim takes that as some kind of promise, then moves forward with the exchange. "Let him down, Jean. He's not going to run."

The other man's confidence infuriates the young man, but when his boots finally touch the ground, he does not flee. He straightens out his sweatshirt with exaggerated care, and brushes imaginary dust off his jeans. When he looks back up, his red on black eyes have narrowed.

"My name is Scott Summers," Slim says, pointing at himself with his thumb. "These are my colleagues, Dr. Jean Grey, and Logan."

Red and the hairy man acknowledge him respectively. He spares them little attention before focusing on the man who called himself Scott Summers. "What de hell d'ya want?"

Slim glances at his buddies with the barest hint of a smile on his face before saying, "We just have a friend who would like to talk to you. That's all."

The young man's shoulders slump. It seems as if these people went to a lot of trouble for something they could've asked outright. He sighs almost inaudibly, and nods his head. "D'accord. Where is he?"

Dr. Grey answers in place of Slim. "He's staying at a hotel downtown. We can take you there."

The young man nods again in response. He learned many years ago that there was no delaying the inevitable. He had a certain place in society, a certain role he was expected to fill, and pretending otherwise wasn't going to help any. He didn't have to like it, but if he wanted to live, he'd damn well better do it. He isn't going to risk his life on the assumption that these people will take no for an answer; not when they tried to hard to catch him in the first place.

"There something we can call you, kid? Put a name to the face?" The hairy man seems to understand at which distance the young man is comfortable, and makes sure to stay outside of that fluid measurement. Dr. Grey, on the other hand, walks close enough on his opposite side to brush his fingers with her own. He digs his hands into his jean pockets to avoid such contact. Slim walks several steps ahead, assuming the role of leader as the young man guesses he does often.

"Call me Remy," he says, offering no last name, and is pleased when no one asks for one.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Oh my God, can anyone believe it? A second chapter in under a week? I think that's a record for me. All I can say is winter break rocks.

On a somewhat serious note, I can't thank all of you enough for the positive feedback you've given this story. I wasn't sure how it would be received, because it is a little different than typical canon. I've gotten a few questions about which universe it takes place in, and the answer is this: I don't know. It's sort of an amalgamation of every avenue of X-Men I've experienced. I took pieces out of comics, cartoon, and movies, anything that I liked and that fit with how I wanted to write. I'll try to explain things a little better when and if Remy makes it to the X-Mansion.

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. There's what I consider to be some dark moments coming up, so be prepared if you don't like things like that. As always, please let me know what you think.

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The hotel they arrive at sometime later is not one of the more lavish in town, but neither is it by any means a dump. It is strictly a tourist spot, with the same over-the-top brightly coloured decorations that could be found all over the French Quarter. It is a two-leveled structure, shaped as an open-ended rectangle surrounding a small parking lot. The rooms themselves open up onto an outdoor walkway, with stairs leading up on each end of the building. The parking lot is sparsely populated with vehicles; the hotel is receiving little business so far from ripe tourist season. Come Mardi Gras, the place will be packed for months in advance.

The day is quickly approaching its hottest temperature, and even Remy, accustomed to the humid heat as only a local can be, is uncomfortable. Long rivulets of sweat run down his back, and tendrils of his chin length auburn hair are sticking to his forehead. He's hot, he's hungry, and he's tired, but he'll be damned if any of the people surrounding him will know that.

Slim leads him to a room at the far right end of the first floor. Sitting in front of the open door is an older, bald man confined to a wheelchair. Sharp features are softened by wrinkles and laugh lines, giving the impression of both a hard life, and a life filled with joy. He is wearing what is obviously, even to Remy's inexperienced eye, an expensive, well-tailoured suit, and despite the heat, he does not look uncomfortable. A warm smile comes to his face as Remy approaches with Slim, and he sees nothing but kindness, and strength in the man's blue eyes. Rather than providing reassurance and comfort, as it is assuredly intended, Remy is uneasy with the blatant display of emotion.

"This is Professor Charles Xavier. Professor, this is Remy." Scott makes the introductions with the air of a man used to that particular task. He waits until Remy takes an uneasy step closer before breaking away and joining Dr. Grey and Logan in front of the main office.

"Good morning, Remy." The Professor inclines his head in a polite greeting, but Remy does not respond. An uncomfortable silence stretches between the two, while both men eye the other warily, one more conspicuously than the other.

"Well, where are my manners?" the Professor says, after a long moment. "Please, do come inside. You have a beautiful city, but the heat is simply unbearable to one more accustomed to the Northern states."

Without waiting for acknowledgement, he backs his wheelchair up, and wheels himself into the dark room. With one last glance towards the direction they came from, Remy sighs softly, and enters the room.

He is unsurprised to see a standard hotel room, much like he suspects one could find all over the country. There is one double bed, flanked by two simple nightstands. Facing it is a medium sized television on a Formica stand. A door in the far right corner leads to what Remy assumes is a bathroom.

The Professor has wheeled himself over to the desk against the far wall, and is fiddling with something on its surface, out of Remy's sight.

"Forgive the colour palate," the older man says, speaking of the rather garish gold and turquoise motif. "It is hardly my taste, but on short notice, there is little that can be done."

While he is occupying himself, Remy steps forward, and tests the spring of the mattress with his hands. He straightens, pulls off his sweatshirt, and throws it over the back of the room's only chair.

"So…where do you wanna do dis? Is de chair okay?"

He's unsure of where to go from here, and despite what his instincts are telling him, he doesn't feel right asking the question. He starts to take his belt off, but it's too late now, because the Professor has turned around, and is now staring at him with a disgusted and yet thoroughly embarrassed expression on his face. His blue eyes flash from Remy's clenched fists and averted gaze, to his sweatshirt hanging over the back of the armchair.

"Oh, no," he whispers, so quietly Remy can almost not hear him. "No, my dear child, you misunderstood."

Remy does little but raise an eyebrow. He feels his heart beat a little faster in his chest /maybe this time will be different, maybe I won't have to do it/ but he is reluctant to get his hopes up.

"I didn't ask you hear for that," Xavier says, and though he appears mostly recovered from his apparent surprise, Remy senses he is still largely uncomfortable with the situation. "No, I only want to talk with you. That is all."

Colour begins to infuse Remy's face as he realized how poorly he interpreted the situation. He grabs at his sweatshirt, and yanks it over his head so roughly he hears a stitch or two pop. The noise is like a gunshot in the otherwise silent room.

While it isn't exactly common for someone to make a request like that, it's even less often that Remy misreads the circumstances so thoroughly. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he doesn't **feel** anything from this man. To someone so accustomed to reading people in the way Remy does, to suddenly be denied it is like losing a sense integral to his very being.

He reluctantly looks back at Xavier, and is startled to see genuine, heart felt sadness displayed on his face. If that is not enough, he can feel it as though Xavier is transmitting his emotions across the space of the room. He files this little piece of information away in the back of his mind, wondering if maybe this strange man is more than what he seems.

Xavier opens and closes his mouth several times before he finds the words. "I am deeply sorry that the life you have experienced would lead you to believe I asked you here for…that. But I am not that kind of man."

Remy doubts that last comment very much; there are very few people he has met that were not "that kind of man." No one is that rigid. Given the right temptation, the right circumstance, and anyone can be that kind of man. But he doesn't question the statement. Few men like to be confronted with proof of their duplicity.

"Would you like to have a seat?"

Remy glances furtively at the door to his left. He shakes his head emphatically, and slips his hand into the back pocket of his jeans. He feels an inordinate amount of relief when his fingers brush against the laminated surface of a half deck of playing cards. He never goes anywhere without some kind of weapon, and in his experience playing cards are an ideal projectile, given his specific…gift. Remarkably easy to swipe from under someone's nose, and just as easy to conceal.

"Remy, I assure you I'm not going to hurt you. When I say I want to talk, I mean I want to talk." His expression looks sincere enough, but Remy is reluctant to believe it. At any rate, he wishes the old man would just tell him why he's here.

"That being said, you're free to leave at any time." His warm blue eyes flick to the closed door, as if daring the younger man to take the invitation. Remy takes a step towards the door, if for no other reason than to prove he can, then sighs softly and perches on the arm of the chair positioned next to him.

Xavier looks far from satisfied, but he doesn't otherwise remark. "I asked that you come to see me because I would like to help you."

Remy doesn't respond. People's definitions of help could be just about anything. He's not stupid, or naïve enough to think this man's sense of the word could benefit Remy at all. He's had people offer him help before, and found out it does little but bring more pain to his already dismal life.

"Would you like something to eat? There is a restaurant across the street that makes world famous gumbo, though I suspect you already knew that."

Remy's stomach flips over the mere mention of the spicy concoction that originated in his city. He has enough bad memories associated to nearly every variety of the food that he doubts he will ever eat it again. Gumbo in New Orleans is as common as…salt in the ocean, and one can hardly walk three paces without catching the scent of someone's burgeoning meal.

He shakes his head emphatically. "'M not hungry."

His body appears to obey for once, as his stomach manages not to growl at the mere thought of food. Xavier raises an eyebrow slightly, as if to say he doubts the veracity of Remy's claims. But he does not push the issue any further.

"All right. Perhaps I should just tell you why we're here."

Remy manages not to spurt out a sarcastic comment forming on the tip of his tongue; he knows better than to burn a bridge before he finds out what's on the other side. Instead he leans back a fraction on the armrest, feigning an interest he just doesn't feel.

"I'm a mutant, Remy. Much like yourself."

Taken aback from the boldness of Xavier's statement, Remy stands suddenly. /Speak for yourself/ He wants to shout, but finds that the words don't come. His throat has constricted uncomfortably, whether from fear, or a strange kind of hope, he doesn't know. And doesn't want to.

"It's all right," Xavier says softly. "I'm not going to hurt you, or brand you as different. As I mentioned earlier, I only wish to help you."

Remy hopes the statacco pulse beating so loudly in his temple is not actually audible in the small room. He has little doubt that Xavier's claims have truth to them. He has known for some time that he was different from most people, but had fervently avoided a label of any kind. He might not be the most up-to-date on current events, but he understands the plight of the mutant in modern day America. The fact that he is one only seems to add more to the odds stacked against him.

He nods stiffly, and is somewhat surprised to feel that he trusts this man. A brief five-minute meeting is not enough to undue seventeen years of abuse and mistreatment, however. He checks the pack of cards in his back pocket again before sitting back down.

Xavier continues as though he was never interrupted. "I am Headmaster of a school in upstate New York dedicated to the safety and education of young mutants such as yourself. With the help of a small staff, including Scott, Dr. Grey and Logan, and a few others, I strive to provide lost mutants with a safe haven from the perils of being different in today's society. We educate these children, both in the somewhat mundane subjects of math, English, and science, and in the control and maintenance of their mutant powers. Once they have reached the limits of what we can teach, they have the option of rejoining society as educated young people, or staying on, to assist in the education of a new generation of mutants in the same position they once were."

He pauses for a moment, and appears to collect his thoughts. "I believe we could help steer you onto a much less damaging path."

Remy interrupts the speech with a snort of sarcastic laughter. "You act like I chose dis life. You t'ink I'd be here, if dere was anyt'in' else?"

Xavier shakes his head sadly. "That's the point, my boy. I understand that in your position, there are very few options. I only wish to provide you with some."

Remy's eyes narrow, and he regards the Professor with the same amount of caution he might afford a cobra poised to strike. "In my experience, very few people give somet'in' for not'in'. What's de catch?"

"There is no catch. I simply wish to prove that mutants can be valuable members of society, if given the same opportunities available to everyone else."

"Ah. You wanna make a point."

Xavier is unable to suppress a gentle smile. "I never considered it in those terms, but yes, I suppose that is what it boils down to." He hesitates a moment, and the serious glint is back in his gray eyes. "I know this is a huge decision for you. And I'm not asking that you make it in the span of a few minutes. I'm willing to wait as long as it takes for you to decide."

Remy allows his highly tuned poker face to crack enough to raise his eyebrows incredulously. Does this man even know what he's offering? A golden ticket out of hell, and he acts like Remy has family, or friends, to consider. But even so, Xavier is largely an unknown. As much as he hates his life on the streets, he does find solace in the fact that it is a known element. He understands the dangers, the appeals, the benefits. If he decides to trust Xavier, he will have to learn a whole new set of rules, and a different way of life. He wonders if it's worth it.

Xavier is watching Remy consider carefully, his expectation barely hidden beneath a mask of indifference, but Remy is uncomfortable with the attention. He stands, pulls a cigarette out of his front pocket and sticks it between his lips, but does not light it.

"Lemme t'ink about it," he says finally, moving towards the door before he's even finished talking.

Xavier nods patiently, but Remy's practiced eye does not miss the subtle sagging of broad shoulders. He slips out the door without waiting for more to be said, and it's not until it's shut behind him that he realizes he failed to palm anything. /Well, guess there's a first time for everything./ He digs in his pocket for his Zippo, and lights the cancer stick hanging from his lips.

If at all possible, the day has gotten hotter while he has been inside the air-conditioned hotel room. He adjusts the sunglasses on his face, and pushes himself away from the door, to head back to town and find something cool to drink.

"So, how did it go?"

He feels the presence of Slim and his little harem before the older man speaks, and he turns to look as they near him on the walkway. They must've gone for ice cream, Remy thinks, if the half melted cone in Dr. Grey's hand is any indication.

He shrugs again. "He give dat speech often? Cause I was checkin' de room for tele-prompters."

Logan is the only one that responds, with a funny little half-smirk. "I hear ya there, kid. He always talks like he's got a speech writer hidden in the closet."

Dr. Grey favours her hairy companion with a sharp glance. "It's not like it seems, Remy. The Professor doesn't make this offer to many people. Only those he thinks truly deserve it. Please give him a chance. Think it through."

He wants to answer with sarcasm, and he thinks that if one of the men had spoken that piece, he might've done just that. But he can see the earnestness and sincerity in her face, and feel it in her words. Whatever this Xavier guy has done for her, she believes in him with her heart and soul. The question for Remy is, does he trust that belief?

He nods, and takes a long drag on his cigarette. "I will," he promises, and is sort of surprised to find he means it. It won't hurt him to at least consider the outlandish proposal. And it's not like he has a heavy social calendar that might take up all his time.

He waves good-bye, a funny little wiggle of his fingers, and then he's gone, heading back to his part of town to find something to drink.

Jean watches him go until his auburn head disappears among the throngs of people already populating the sidewalks. "Do you think he'll come back with us?"

When no reply is forthcoming, she turns around, and is startled to see she's alone. The door to the Professor's room stands open; she can hear murmurs of conversation coming from inside. She wonders how long she was watching Remy without realizing it.

The discussion is in full swing when she finally enters.

"Is he really going to go for it? Freedom's really important for a kid his age, and he'd be giving all of his up." Logan is reclined in the armchair to Jean's right, his feet already propped up on the corner of the bed. Scott's lip twists at the disregard for good housekeeping, but thankfully for all concerned, he doesn't say anything.

"For an opportunity for a steady means of nutrition? A warm bed? Clean clothes and running water? I should think so." The Professor is running his fingers absently along the armrest of his wheel chair. Even without the obvious tell, Jean would've recognized the tight lines around his mouth and eyes. He seems to have aged a year in a matter of ten minutes.

Logan snorts, then he and Scott say together, "You'd be surprised."

Their eyes meet across the room, ruby quartz against clear blue. Scott's lip twists again, Logan smirks and shakes his head, and Jean rolls her eyes. Never before had she met two people so diametrically opposed to each other. Heaven forbid they should discover they have the same opinion about something.

"I think he's going to come with us," Jean speaks up, in part in an effort to bolster the Professor's confidence, and in part to interrupt the uncomfortable silence resulting from Logan and Scott's harmonizing.

The Professor catches her gaze from the across the room, as she sits down on the bed, and smiles gratefully at her. She can see that something about this boy has affected him, and she wonders what's different about him than all the other young mutants in the country that could've used their help. .

"Were you able to learn anything about his mutation?"

"Make that plural," Logan says. "Kid seems to have a grab bag of superhuman powers."

Jean takes the cue and continues on. "The most obvious are his eyes. Black sclera, red pupils. They seem to almost glow, but without getting a closer look, I can't be sure. Also, we think his main power has something to do with energy conversion. When we first…met… him, he panicked, tried to run. He grabbed a piece of silver off a table, held it in his hand for a second or two, then threw it on the ground. It exploded while he ran."

"Has to have some kind of enhanced agility, too." Scott, pacing away nervous energy along the front of the room, does not pause as he contributes to the conversation. "You should've seen him climb that fence." He flattens his hand, moves it in a diagonal motion to demonstrate how quick the boy moved. "He made it over in no time flat. Like a cat, or something."

"So in all likelihood, we might be dealing with an Omega-class mutant."

Jean's mouth opens to question that statement, but Logan beats her to it. "Wait a minute. I thought you said you felt him through Cerebro."

The Professor nods reluctantly. "I did. But the boy has remarkable psychic shielding. I've never seen this kind of strength in a non-telepath. It was impossible for me to be entirely sure of anything."

Logan throws his arms into the air in frustration, and flies out of the chair to join Scott in pacing the room. "So we don't know anything about this kid for sure? Nothing concrete? And I'm not talking about assumptions based on something one of us saw. I think in our lives, we can all agree that just ain't good enough. Are you sure we should be inviting him to live with us?"

"I agree," Scott adds, and remarkably, the world fails to stop spinning when Logan and Scott agree with each other twice in ten minutes. "We're going into a situation without knowing everything. It could've been a lot worse today. We should find out what he's capable of before bringing him back with us. ."

"It doesn't matter what his powers are!" The Professor nearly shouts, seemingly without provocation, and suddenly all eyes are wide in disbelief and fixed unwaveringly on him. The look on Scott's face might've been comical if not for the seriousness of the situation. Charles very rarely loses his temper, and he never, ever raises his voice. This display of anger only further proves to Jean that there is something about this boy that they aren't being told.

The Professor takes a breath, visibly calms himself, and begins again in a much softer voice. "It doesn't matter how powerful he is. He needs our help. And he is going to get it, regardless of any personal reservations." He glances at each of them in turn, as if daring them to speak against him.

"I understand your misgivings given the circumstances. But he is a seventeen-year old boy, living the life not even a grown man should handle. I would feel no different about wanting to help him even if he was not afflicted by the X-gene."

Again, he seeks to catch each of their eyes, although this time it is for a largely different reason. He is looking for support, searching in his co-workers faces for some indication that they might feel as he does. Although he has all but stated out loud that he will do anything to help this boy, he would much rather do it with these three people standing with him.

Jean looks across the room to her husband, who was ceased pacing and now simply stands with his arms crossed tightly against his chest. Logan is using the room's dresser as a leaning post, his ankles crossed on the floor in front of him, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his worn jeans. Both men are frowning, and both appear to be in deep thought. Feeling her attention on him, Logan looks up. Scott does the same, and for a half-minute, the three exchange glances between each other. Jean has known both of them long enough to be able to read the expressions on their faces without having to ask questions, as they can also do with her. They will remain where they have always been; at this man's side, watching his back and offering their support.

She smiles to herself, to her husband, and to her best friend, then turns to the Professor. "What do you want us to do?"

* * *

...to be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I'm sure there are some of you out there who are surprised I updated. To be completely honest, I'm a little surprised myself.

This chapter is a lot heavier than any previous ones, and deals with adult situations. If that kind of thing isn't your bag, baby, then I suggest you find some different fan fiction.

Enjoy!

* * *

The hole in the ceiling, next to the wall with the breeding mildew, appears to be growing.

Remy will have to move soon, or risk drowning in a sudden downpour should the roof cave in. He frowns, crosses his arms underneath his head, and considers his choices. There's an abandoned office building over on Barracks Road that he might be able to find some room in. And last he heard, St. Anne Street had some available real estate for the not so monetarily inclined. The basement of an apartment building with a broken hinge on one of the windows, if he remembers correctly. Or there's that school in upstate New York; a double bed with a great view of the lake might be just what he needed.

And just like that, his train of thought returns to its original course. A life off the streets, in a school no less, with steady food and clean clothes and running water…it seems too good to be true. And that's the trick, isn't it? Suppose he gets all the way up there, and it isn't half of what it was reported to be. Now he's stuck in another state, with no way to get home, and a worse life than the one he left. To his pessimistic way of seeing things, it's a lose-lose situation.

But no matter what he decides, he needs to do it soon. Xavier said he could take all the time he wants, but Remy doesn't really like the idea of four grown adults waiting around for a seventeen year old kid to make up his mind. He tries to remember, but he doesn't think anyone's ever asked him what he wanted to do. Even if he had an option available to him, life has always had a way of forcing his hand.

He knows he has to get out of this hellish situation. Living hand to mouth is not the way for anyone to go, but up until now, he had never allowed himself to consider the idea that his life might be different. He knows better than to wallow in pity. He's seen a lot of people head down really destructive paths that way.

His stomach growls loudly, and he lays a hand on it, grimacing at the sharp hunger pains. Seven hours since he met the Professor, four since he had lunch, and his body is desperate for more. He sits up slowly on his cot, reaches into the pouch of his sweatshirt to count the bills left there. Of the original ninety-three dollars he swiped this morning, he has eighty-seven dollars and seventy-three cents left over. There's more than enough there for a proper dinner, late though it is.

Despite the fact that the sun is setting on the other side of the city, he replaces his newly stolen sunglasses on his face and heads out through the hole in the wall.

The streets are unrecognizable in twilight when compared to the bustling activity of midday. Remy knows better than most the perils of the city after dark. Only the stupidest and most ill-informed tourists brave the pickpockets and petty thugs that hide out during the day. Locals are all but unheard of after the dinner hour, save for those unlucky enough to have jobs that keep them out past dark.

Remy moves confidently, but quickly, with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He is better equipped to protect himself than the average citizen, but that can mean little if luck is not on his side.

He picked up another two decks of cards after meeting with the Professor, swiped from the tabletop of a street vendor, and the weight in his back pockets is a comfortable one.

"Eh, you got de time?"

He jumps a little at the sudden voice, whirls around on his heels and tries, albeit a little too late, to appear nonchalant. A man who couldn't be more than five or ten years older than Remy himself is standing just outside the circle of light created by a street light. A quick glance overhead tells Remy that the light he is standing under has burned out. His stomach flips over.

The man takes a step closer, and Remy can see that he is wearing a pair of plain black pants in similar repair to Remy's jeans. Unlike Remy, this man is only wearing a wife beater.

Remy shrugs his shoulders simply. "Don' have a watch. Sorry, homme."

The man takes another step forward, and when Remy move back an answering distance, he runs into the warm strength of another man's chest. Before it even occurs to him he's in a bad spot, a pair of arms snake out from behind him. One pins his arms to sides, the other hand covers his mouth before he can call out for help that he knows won't come.

He doesn't have time to consider his avenues of action before panic fully ensconces his mind. He begins to thrash, but before he can get loose the first man hurries over and traps his legs. The hand that covers his mouth smells strongly of alcohol, and something vaguely biological that he doesn't want to consider. The hot breath against his ear nearly triggers his gag reflex before he manages to tramp it down.

They carry his writhing and desperate form into an alleyway between two old style brick buildings. There, behind an old dumpster filled with rotten, forgotten garbage, they throw him down on the pavement.

"Y'don' wanna do dis," Remy says, scrambling backwards until his back comes up against the wall. His fingers scrabble to reach his cards, now underneath him and still in his pocket, but before he can, the man in the wifebeater grabs him by the ankles and pulls him back into reach.

"You bet your hot little ass we do," the man says. He pins Remy's legs beneath his hands, and holds him there with all of his weight. The second man snags his wrists, and pins those on either side of his hips before a third man comes out of the shadows.

Even if he hadn't heard the stories, and seen the aftermath first-hand, Remy would know what's going to happen. His muscles tense under the restraining hands, he gathers all his available strength and bucks up against them, managing to free one foot. Before he can do anything other than scrabble against the slick pavement, they grab his ankle again, and push down hard enough to grind the bones painfully together.

"You better hold still, boy." The man in the wifebeater is close enough to Remy's face that the teen can feel the spittle caused by the hushed whisper hitting his cheek.

"You got him down?" The third man speaks up from somewhere outside Remy's sphere of vision; the jangling of his belt buckle that accompanies his words is the loudest sound in the world to the young New Orleans' native.

The two men pinning Remy exchange glances, then simultaneously move to flip Remy over. His face is pressed into the slick concrete, his arm twisted against his back until he can feel the bones pop and has to bite his lip hard enough to bleed to muffle the scream.

"Please don't do this," he whispers. His eyes are squeezed shut, his harsh breathing echoes in the comparative silence of the alleyway. He tries to move again, but someone's weight is pressing down against the small of his back, and the agony from his broken arm is making the corners of his vision blacken and blur.

A hand reaches underneath him, tries to get to his belt buckle pushed to the ground by the combined weight of his own body and the man on top of him. His eyes snap open at the sensation of cold, slimy fingers against the soft skin of his abdomen. He needs to get out of here. More than anything, he needs to get out. His frantic gaze searches the garbage piled around the alley, looking for something that is both within his range, and can be charged easily enough to turn into a weapon.

A small pile of pebbles gathered about a foot from his head seems to be his best option, provided he can get his arm free. He takes a deep breath, feels the air expanding his lungs and focuses on that rather than the fingers beneath him still trying to undo his belt.

Someone makes a frustrated noise from above his shoulder, and he hears the sound of a switchblade being opened. /Oh God/ The weight holding his body in place is not dislodged by the surge of adrenaline that comes as a response to that sound, and a sob bursts from his lips before he can bite it down. He feels the bite of the blade against his hipbone, but it's nothing more than a scratch and an instant later his belt is loosened.

"Got it," one of the men shouts in triumph, and Remy is certain that if he does not get himself free in the next few seconds he might as well stop trying. He eyes the pile of pebbles, quickly judges the distance from his arm, and the time it would take to reach them. Taking a deep breath and holding it, he prepares himself for the resulting pain, then before he can back out, wrenches his good arm out of its restraint. A startled and angry noise above him, and his head his slammed into the ground as his fingers close around the pebbles.

"Uhhhh…" He moans without realizing it, but refuses to let himself fall into the blackness encroaching at the corners of his vision. He knows if he allows himself to lose consciousness, he won't be returning to it.

The pebbles in his hand grow warm as he transmits as strong a charge as he dares to them. Without allowing himself to think about the consequences should one miss its target, he whips them over his shoulder, praying to a god he doesn't believe in that they find their mark. A score of surprised noises sound in the alleyway, and the weight against his back shifts just slightly. He doesn't wait for another opportunity.

Pain flares through his arm, and up to his shoulder as he wrenches himself to his feet, throwing off his attackers with a strength born of desperation. He doesn't look back as he holds his broken arm tightly against his chest, and starts to run.

Above him, the heavy clouds open and it begins to rain. He can't help but think it's fitting.

* * *

Logan feels in his bones that this is a bad idea. Worse than any others the Professor or Fearless Leader concocted. He understands where they are coming from; if given the chance, he would like to help all the kids condemned to lives on the street. But Logan is not the reason they are there, and neither is the Professor, or Scott, or Jean. It's not their responsibility to make sure those kids are taken care of. Their responsibility lies with those already living at the mansion; the kids who are there because they want help. Logan thinks they should consider the effect this Remy person would have on all those kids before inviting him to live with them. Of course, Logan knows better than most that once Chuck and Jean get an idea into their head, there's no changing their mind.

He takes another pull at the half-empty beer bottle, and sneers at the television. He'd heard the Saints played a decent game of football, but he's far from impressed. If he wanted to watch fumbles, bad calls, and intercepted passes he would've stayed in New York.

He isn't even entirely sure why he came on this trip. So far he had done nothing but intimidate the kid. Logan didn't really have anything to contribute to convincing him that he should come to New York. But if he is honest with himself, he would admit it is kind of nice to have a room all to himself, without noisy kids or noisy teammates on either side, even if it is only until Scott, Chuck and Jean get back from dinner.

Another sneer at the television, and he turns it off, tossing the remote onto the bed. It started raining a half hour ago, and the volume of it had been steadily increasing since that time. It is now coming down in sheets, drenching anyone unlucky enough to be caught in it.

As if to prove his point, a knock sounds at the door.

He pulls it open without peering through the sissy eyehole, and his bushy eyebrows nearly disappear beneath his hairline. If he had thought they would be seeing him again so soon, he would have insisted Jean stay behind.

The kid looks like a drowned rat; the heavy downpour has plastered his hair against his head, changing the auburn to a dark brown. His clothes are in similar shape, the gray of his t-shirt is made nearly black, but it's not so dark that Logan misses the smudge of heavy dirt across the front. Intermixed with the scent of blood, rain, and garbage Logan can detect a hint of salt, and knows that the kid is barely hanging on to whatever fragile control he might have over his emotions. He sticks his head outside the door, glancing around the tiny parking lot, then grabs him by the front of his sweatshirt and pulls him inside.

"What the hell happened?" he asks, pushing Remy into the armchair and hurrying to grab a stack of towels from the bathroom. The kid is trembling, droplets of water are falling from his hair and clothes and are pooling onto the floor beneath him. He has no answer for Logan, can only open and close his mouth like some twisted parody of a fish. Logan sits on the edge of the bed after draping a towel around Remy's shoulders, and tries to assess his injuries without actually touching him.

The most obvious is the rather nasty gash on his forehead, just above his left eyebrow. Surely the source of the metallic smell Logan detected only seconds ago, blood from it is running down Remy's face, mixing with the rain and dripping off the line of his jaw. Logan grabs a wash cloth from the stack of dry towels, and holds it on there despite the kid's wince, instructing him to put pressure on it.

Remy is holding his right arm tightly against his chest, and though Logan does not try to confirm, he supposes it's strained badly, if not broken. He leans back on the bed, thinking it was probably just a standard mugging, when he notices the belt, cut cleanly on the left side of Remy's hip and hanging uselessly from those belt loops. It's still buckled in front.

Logan's not an idiot. Contrary to Scott's muttered curses, he can put two and two together, and is smarter than the average grizzly bear. He knows what happens tonight, and when he glances at the kid's pale face, and remembers how much he wanted to leave this kid on his own, he feels sick to his stomach. He is not by any means an innocent or naïve man, but despite what he has seen, and what he himself as done, he is sometimes startled by humans' capacity for cruelty against one another.

He feels Jean's questioning touch on his mind, and knows that he must have been projecting. Normally his mind is locked down tighter than Fort Knox, but in this case, he considers it a blessing that Jean has been alerted. He tries to project a sense of urgency, and hopes that she interprets it correctly.

"You should dry yourself off," he says gruffly, dropping the remainder of the towels to Remy's feet. "You're gonna get sick."

Remy makes no move to pick them up. He is trembling so badly Logan thinks he might shake himself right out of that chair, and is starting to entertain the thought of shock when the door to the motel room flies open.

Remy reacts instantly, leaping out of the chair as though it were on fire, and scrambles over the bed to the other side of the room. Jean stands in the doorway, drenched in rain despite the fact she was only across the street. She watches in horror as a terrified Remy grabs the lamp off the bedside table, and rips the cord out of the wall. It begins to grow pink in his grasp.

"Remy, my God, what happened? What are you doing?" She eyes the puddle of water on the floor in front of the armchair, the discarded bloodstained washcloth. The gash on his forehead is bleeding again, heavier than before without the rain to wash it away.

Logan, keeping a careful eye on Remy and yet hesitant to get too close, lest he startle the young man and get blown up for his struggles, answers for him. "He was attacked. Showed up on the doorstep like this. But the assholes who did it, they're not here, kid."

Wide, glowing red eyes focus on Logan. His chest is heaving with desperate panicked breaths, and the hand that is not holding the lamp by its neck is opening and closing rapidly.

"Remy, honey, nobody is going to hurt you. You need to put the lamp down."

Jean feels her husband's questioning presence at her back, but stubbornly maintains that he and the Professor should wait outside, underneath the umbrella until they can diffuse the situation.

"Kid, your head's bleeding pretty badly. Jean's a doctor; let her have a look at it and you'll be right as rain before you know it."

Remy's fiery gaze flickers back and forth between Jean and Logan; the lamp stops glowing, but his crackling nervous energy does not change.

Logan glances back at Jean. He knows that with her telekinetic powers, she could pluck that lamp from Remy's fingers easier than he could reach over and grab it. But he understands the importance of talking this kid down, of convincing him to make the decision himself rather than forcing it on him.

"I…dey, uh, dey cut m'belt," Remy says sadly, and the lamp slips from his suddenly limp fingers and breaks on the floor. He bites his lip hard, hard enough to draw blood yet again, and the portion of Jean's mind dedicated to mothering reacts instantly.

"Oh, sweetie," she says, coming forward and touching his shoulder gently. "We can get you another one." She kicks the remains of the lamp under the bed with the toe of her sneaker. "Here, sit down on the bed and let me have a look at you." She maneuvers him carefully to the queen-sized, and he collapses boneless onto the edge of it, hunched forward on himself with his arm still held against his chest.

He's trembling, whether it's from fear, or the soaked clothes he's still wearing, Jean doesn't know. Logan tosses the pile of towels onto the bed next to her, and she wraps one tightly around Remy's shoulders.

"This gash is going to need a good cleaning, and probably some stitches." She picks the second washcloth out of the pile, and puts it against his forehead. "Hold this here, sweetie."

He complies, holding the terrycloth to his head with bloodied, shaking fingers.

"I need to have a look at your arm, Remy."

"I, uh, it's broken." He's speaking with exaggerated care, and the colour is beginning to return to his cheeks, so Jean is no longer worried he will collapse. "Um, at least, I t'ink it's broken. It made a, a popping noise."

He reluctantly moves his arm, allows Jean to hold him lightly at the hand, and elbow. There is no bruising, but it's beginning to swell, and the adrenaline is receding fast enough that it's also starting to hurt. "I think you're right," she says, ghosting her fingers along his skin. "Either way, you're definitely going to need x-rays."

She looks up at Logan, whose standing over the pair of them with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. "Can you get in touch with Hank? Let him know we're on our way back and we'll need his help when we get there."

"Sure I will. As soon as the kid tells me it's what he wants."

Jean is surprised. "Of course. I just assumed that since he was here…" She trails off, visibly disappointed with herself for making such an ignorant assumption.

"I'm comin' wit' you," he says, speaking suddenly and with a depth of intensity that surprises both of them. "Dere ain't not'in' fer me here. Let's get de hell outta here."

Logan studies the kid's face, trying to gauge the motivation behind his decision. A choice made in such strong emotions is not really a choice at all; Logan knows this better than most. He also knows that if the kid makes his decision for the wrong reasons, he will come to regret it.

But the fear from earlier is no longer present in Remy's face; his hands are now steady and sure where they rest on his knees. Logan shrugs. "If that's what you want. I'll go call McCoy, tell him to expect us within the hour."

He leaves without benefit of an umbrella, and as the door closes behind him, Remy drops his chin to his chest. The pain in his arm is rapidly becoming unbearable, and a part of him is wondering how he managed to make it this far.

But his life on the street has taught him, among other things, that he is nothing if not a survivor. He knows there is very little he wouldn't do to live another day, though sometimes he wonders if the tenacity is a survival instinct, or simply a habit. His decision to go with these people is born of that instinct/habit, and if he made a show of trying to decide, he had to know deep within himself that ultimately, he would choose to live. And if the attack earlier proved anything, it is that his survival cannot be guaranteed if he stays here any longer. So he will put his faith in these people, in New York, and the chance for a better life. If it doesn't turn out the way he expected it to, well, then he can just add it to the long list of disappointments that already exists.


End file.
